Thursday, December 6, 2007

First Stone

Their religion is bridge,this bunch of elderwomen,some who married decent men,others who've survivedhusbands who've died,naturally, or by suicide,planned or inadvertent,or who've left for a chick,or just walked out,sick of marriage, leaving themalone with children.At least two have aching feetand Amazon chests.One is a caregiverwith a motherwho's over a hundred.These ladiesgive of theirnearly used-up time.They teach young womento cook who've been jailed,or spend it pushing book carts along hospital corridors,or driving the infirm,some younger than they,to the doctor.Others make quilts or knitfor absent grandchildren they get to hug onlyevery year or twoon a too-short visit.For those who live close by, they're glad to baby-sit.

They discuss the latest books.They'll see any Jack Nicholson movie.The widows watch the 49'ers out of habit.They don't give a figabout who's Episcopalian or Jewish,multiracial or Zuni,who comes from Bombay or from Antigonish.They care about avoiding grouches,and knowing Stayman,or Blackwood, or how to bid a Weak 2.They're quick to forgive mistakes.They've made a lot too.

Today, this mix of elderwomenis in their kind of earthly heaven,a white stucco house with a blue tile roof,where bridge is being played.Thyme grows among the cobblestonesleading to a gothic-arched front door,where hangs a tire-sized beribboned wreathof eucalyptus, lavender, and heath.The lavender scent is sweet.

Inside, two tables of these ladies sit contentedly, stare meditatively at their cards.They laugh a lot.The windows are old with bubbly glass, and are framed with snowdrop-white Wyeth curtains. Occasionally, the ladies lookthrough the polished windows, see white pompoms dancing on a blooming plum,a breeze blowing a willow tree.